Behind the Tapes
by Kishoto
Summary: A deeper, more introspective look into how Hannah may have felt during the events described throughout her time spent alive in the series.


_1_

A photo of my panties. A boring, white pair at that. I'd worn bikinis before; this was no big deal. So what if everyone had seen it? It didn't mean anything.

* * *

 _2_

Really, Jess? You slapped me. Over a boy. Could you be any more cliché? And you should know better than anyone that I'm no slut. Did your anger suddenly make those rumours I'd told you were lies true?

Whatever. It's fine. This'll blow over. Maybe we can even start going back to Monet's. We'll be kicking back over hot chocolate and laughing over how dumb Alex was to dump you in no time. I'm sure.

* * *

 _3_

How utterly caveman. Best ass? Please.

I didn't ask to be put on that stupid list; stop staring at it. Stop staring at me! Do people really think they're being subtle? The winks, the nods, the whispering; I'm not blind or deaf, you know. I was a person, for God's sake. Not a piece of meat. What made it even worse was the way the girls looked at me; I didn't catch many of their glances (we teenage girls can be quite sneaky when we're ready) but when I did, all I saw was judgement, mockery, even jealousy! Not a single sympathetic look in the bunch, as if it was some sort of compliment. After today, I needed a fix; something sweet to calm my nerves. And I knew just where to go.

What the- did you just?! No! I don't give a shit if it's tight; you don't grab my ass! Fuck you, you misogynistic prick! Now, if only I'd said that to his stupid jock face instead of thinking that line up after I'd got done walking home through a fugue of tears and shame. I felt like my ass was marked and Bryce's hand had simply given it physical form on it; Hannah Baker's ass was property of the entirety of Liberty High. Signed over without her consent by Alex's pen on a list.

* * *

 _4_

I can hear you; I can't see you but I can hear you. That bush is full of branches. Every movement you make crackles in a way that wind doesn't. You picked a terrible hiding spot, whoever you are. Just stay out there. Please, please stay out there. Please. I wish I'd noticed you before I'd climbed into bed. And it had been way too long; you must have thought I was asleep. But you were still there. I could hear your camera clicking every so often; what's so damn interesting about the blue sheets and mane of brown hair you could see from your angle?

The only thing worse than going to school is going to school with a half hour of sleep under your belt. I didn't think I'd be getting any tonight either but hopefully Courtney's plan takes care of my stalker once and for all.

I'd never kissed a girl before tonight. It was…something. I'm almost glad my stalker ruined the mood; Courtney didn't seem interested in stopping. I shone the light into Courtney's face, getting her off of me before jumping up and shining it outwards. I heard a stumble and I saw a startled, pale face.

Tyler. Tyler Down. Why did it being someone I knew instead of some random freak make it feel so much worse? He never came back after that night but I never slept well in that room again either. On windy nights, I could've sworn I heard the clicking of his camera shutter and the crackle of the branches as he settled in for another night of voyeurism. I usually spent those nights on the couch, claiming I'd fallen asleep in front of some late night TV when my parents inevitably caught me the next day.

* * *

 _5_

A dance. Dances are stupid. Why would I go? Oh, Clay's going. Well…they're still dumb but maybe I'll go.

Courtney's pretending like the other night didn't happen. Hard to do considering that photo is still making the rounds. Is it fucked up that the straight girl cares less about it than the gay one?

Clay looks so handsome; I honestly didn't think he even knew how to dress up. He seemed like one of those guys that owned exactly one suit for funerals and weddings and that was it. Well, if this was that suit, it was pretty slick looking.

I'd given up on disputing the slut rumours; I couldn't fight an entire school. I was just one girl. So why did this entire school seem dead set on fighting me? No, sir. I didn't blow Justin and I certainly will not blow you, Montgomery.

I am no one's shield, Courtney Crimson. I refuse to be; I can't be. I can barely shield myself, let alone anyone else. You don't get to do that to me and act as if I should be fine and take it just because you're pretty and popular with good grades and two gay dads that would be completely _crushed_ to find out their daughter swung for the other team. I won't rat you out but I certainly won't be used as an excuse; never again.

* * *

 _6_

Dollar Valentines. For just a dollar, find your true love. I didn't need love; not really. But it could be nice, I guess. At the very least, I could talk to a cute boy and forget my troubles for a night. Screw it, I'll buy one. I can spare a dollar.

I suppose it was too much to hope I was matched with Helmet; he probably didn't even bother to turn his in. Maybe I could ask him anyway? This is the 21st century after all. I don't know though. I don't think I could. He'd probably just say no. I wasn't the type of girls boys dated seriously. Not if you believed the majority of the school, anyway.

Marcus Cole? He's cute. Really cute. And really popular. I wondered what he could've possibly wanted with me but I figured what the heck. It's just Rosie's. And some part of me wondered how many milkshakes Benjamin Franklin could get us. I bet it's a lot. I'm not going to pretend to be some deep, independent woman that protests at the thought of a boy buying me anything. It's nice to know someone cares enough to do that; to come out and be seen with you, despite your reputation. To smile and pay for the check like a gentleman should.

Stop staring at me. Just because it's Valentine's Day and a teenage girl is sitting in an empty booth sipping on a milkshake by herself doesn't mean there's anything wrong. It definitely doesn't mean I was stood up. My date's just late. It's only been thirty five minutes. So what if he hasn't responded to my last three texts? He'll probably be here. Maybe I'll text him again, just to be sure. Oh wait, no! He's here! I'm embarrassed to reveal how relieved that made me. Better late than never has never been more applicable than right now; I can see he's sorry, too. He's going to apologize to me so I can pretend to think hard before ultimately granting him my forgiveness. Of course, I won't tell him that I'm just happy he showed up at all.

My thigh was burning from where his hand touched me. His hand had moved up and his fingers had barely grazed…somewhere…before I'd shoved him away from me. I told myself it was no big deal; it had just been a touch, a single finger barely ghosting over a place none ever had besides my own. It was just one finger. But all of the rationalizations in the world didn't make the pit in my stomach feel any less cold or heavy. It took all the strength I had to not curl up into a ball and bawl my eyes out. But I'd made a promise to myself: no more crying in public. I'd done enough of that for one year, let alone one semester.

Zach. Why are you just sitting there trying to make small talk? Can't you see how uncomfortable I am? Can't you see I have no interest in talking to anyone, let alone another jock? Your _kind_ hasn't exactly been good to me. This isn't cute and it isn't sweet; it's creepy. I don't care that your stardom paid for my milkshakes. I can pay a $4.30 bill. Back the fuck off.

* * *

 _7_

I suppose I should've been clearer the first time. I'm sorry if I wasn't exactly in the right mood for telling you this then, so I'll say it now. Zach Dempsey. Leave me alone. Please and thank you. I didn't want to eat lunch with you. I didn't need even more rumours springing up; I could hear them now. "Just what had Hannah Baker done to make the illustrious Zach Dempsey give her the time of day?"

My leg was bouncing up and down as I waited for communications class to end. What sort of bunny had my mysterious classmate left for me today? I was eager to find out.

Oh. Nothing. Well, that's ok. I wasn't looking forward to it that much anyway. It didn't matter, really. It was just a cartoon bunny. I'd seen a million of them.

On one hand, I'm relieved I wasn't being ignored. On the other hand; Zach Dempsey is stealing my cartoons. Those are **my** cartoons. Mine. Not yours. You practically have everything else in this fucking school already; you don't get to take the one thing that brightens my day from me! It's mine. Those drawings are mine.

Why me?

No, seriously, why me? Do I not even deserve the common decency of saying no without retaliation? Without punishment? Who are you to take from me just because I didn't want your false hand of friendship? Because I embarrassed you in a cafeteria? Even though I'm sure I received all of the blame from our little confrontation.

Who knows? Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe you're somehow the one good jock in this town. Maybe your affections for me really were honest. I can't say. What I CAN say is pretty much all of your friends have exploited me, molested me or claimed they had sex with me. And now you're stealing from me. Doesn't paint the most convincing picture, does it Zach?

* * *

 _8_

I wonder if Zach ever stopped taking my bunnies; I can't bring myself to check my compliment bag these days. I don't think I could really handle finding nothing in there right now. Maybe I'll check it next week…

I'm a solid B- student. With parents who dumped most of their life savings into a pharmacy right around the time I should start thinking about college. I get it; it's their dream. But still. It kinda sucks that I'll probably end up manning the counter there after graduation while doing night classes at the local community college. I doubt I'd get the sort of fresh start and mind expanding experience I'd been looking forward to since I'd first learnt what college even was.

A poetry club. Not exactly what I'd hoped to get out of College Fair day but it's something. What day of the week was it again? It doesn't really matter; I can make it no matter what day it is. I don't exactly have anywhere else to be through the week anyway.

Ryan. Who would've thought we would've ever became friends? You always seemed too cool for school and all of the people inside it but I guess you made exceptions for the only other person in your age group at a poetry reading. It feels good to be an exception, even if it was just a technicality. We didn't really acknowledge each other in the halls but I didn't mind. All of my friends had been that way since I'd come to this school. In hindsight, it paints a rather sad, obvious pattern. But hindsight is 20/20, no?

I did it. I spoke about what was on my mind. What's been on my mind; I let some of the darkness out and I was welcomed with applause. This feels… _good_. Maybe I could actually get used to this; with sharing. The librarian was right, this really was a safe space. I hadn't realized just how long it had been since I felt…safe. And proud. And just happy. Happy to know that someone listened to me, paid attention to me and didn't hurt or ignore me. I embraced these feelings; they were like old friends I'd forgotten I knew.

It took Ryan a single day to take all of that away from me. I'd thought it a little odd how insistent you were about coming over to "develop my spirit". I didn't really care though; you were my friend. Someone I could trust. No…someone I needed to trust. I was tired of being alone and I was ready to grab at anything in reach to not have to be that way anymore.

They know. He knows. She knows. Everyone knows. They have to know. How could they not know? It's obvious who wrote the poem. People are talking about it. Especially the guys. They're calling it sexy, freaky, kinky, etcetera. I'm glad to know my innermost feelings are good enough to stroke your metaphorical hard-ons, _gentlemen_. It's not as if it was coming from a real place of loneliness and pain. Not at all. Even you, Clay. Polite to a fault. But you still think of me as a dark human being; someone you'd quote "never hang out with" unquote. I wonder if you'd feel differently if you knew the writer was me.

I laid awake that night, holding myself and crying. I couldn't get your words out of my head, Clay. I'd known I was having issues; I'd known I wasn't the happiest lately but I had never thought of myself as a dark person before. But I am. What else could I call myself? Who else but a dark person could put something like that down on paper without any effort whatsoever? I didn't work to create these things out of a sense of artistry or fictional ability; they were simply my feelings, put into ink on paper. It was a candid representation of how I really felt. And everyone unanimously agreed that it made me a weird, emo freak. Even if they didn't know it was me they were talking about. Even when I was anonymous, the world found a way to hurt me. It would've been funny if it didn't also just plain _suck_.

* * *

 _9_

It had been a long summer. Or at least it had felt long, especially with Clay out of town. He was slowly becoming the only person I could stand to be around, even as the sense of loneliness grew with each passing day of solitude. I can say this for solitude though; it gave me lots of time to think and imagine what I could be, come junior year. I could be an entirely new Hannah Baker. I really liked the thought of that. Of becoming someone completely new. Someone that didn't walk the halls as an object; not a person but a thing for people to talk about and have an opinion about, even though they'd never said more than two words to me.

My head felt light without so much of my hair. I'd like to think some of that physical lightness would transfer over to emotional lightness as well. The alone time over the summer hadn't done much to help me there; just because I wasn't walking the halls didn't mean I could stay away from high school drama entirely. I saw people whispering when I took their tickets at the movie theater; giggling as they realized just who was serving them. One person pointed. Another held up his ticket comically by its corners, as if afraid to get my cooties. The worst was the girl that asked why I needed to work here at all. I had other ways of making money. It took me longer than I'd like to admit to figure out she was implying I could be a prostitute. Yet another title to add to my ever growing list of false aliases, I suppose.

Clay Jensen. It looked like your time spent with the old folks has given you a bit of a rebellious spirit. That was exciting. I'd never really seen you so assertive. It looked good on you, Clay. I know I'd made a promise to myself but one party wouldn't hurt. Especially with Clay as my sort-of-date. I mean; it wasn't really. I knew that. It was a simple invite. But I'd like to think of it as a date. He didn't have to hold my hand or walk me home but even the thought helped me. And I didn't have to tell him about it or anything; I could just hold onto the feeling and enjoy the evening with a nice boy. So I made my decision.

They cheered as I walked into the house. They chanted my name. It was only a couple of people for a couple of seconds but I can't describe the way it made me feel. I think some part of me knew that wasn't necessarily a good thing. I shouldn't be so happy that a few drunk jocks that spent most of last semester staring at my ass yelled my name. But…I don't think you know what that's like. To be invisible for so long; to be a sexually objectified thing as opposed to a person. I mean, there's plenty of objectification in our society. But to have that be the only thing comprising your social identity in your sole peer group? For so long? No. Most women didn't undergo that. I was sure of it. So yes, I admit, being noticed like that felt…breath taking.

So much happened that night that I'll never forget. A little good but mostly bad. A lot of bad. This was one of the bad things. I was probably the drunkest I'd ever been, I'm not much of a drinker, but even I could tell that Jessica was in no state to consent, even if she'd said yes instead of simply passing out. I was frozen; stuck in my own head by a combination of fear, alcohol and regret. I thought I was about to watch Justin rape my friend. Well, my former friend. But he didn't. He stumbled out of the door, grumbling to himself but ultimately leaving her alone on her bed.

I don't know why I didn't leave the room when Justin did; Jessica was passed out. She wouldn't have seen me. Maybe some part of me was worried about her. Maybe I was still just too shocked by what I'd said to Clay. Maybe, maybe, maybe. All I know is that, when Bryce walked in, I knew it couldn't be for any good reason. I was quickly proven right. I wanted to cry out; to attack him or shout for help or just do _something_. But I couldn't so much as lift a finger as I watched Jessica Davis get raped. I was scared. Bryce had already touched me before. Who knew what he would do if he found me skulking in the closet, the only witness to his crime?

Or so I thought, anyway. But the only other witness…did nothing. You gave it one half-hearted try before giving up on stopping your best friend from raping your girlfriend. You could've broken down the door, you could've gathered your friends and fought Bryce off of her. You could've done so much. But you did nothing. Even in the days following, I'd see you in the hallways, laughing with Bryce's arm around your shoulder and I'd feel sick to my stomach. What kind of world did we live in? Where something like that could happen?

This was supposed to be my new start. Instead I felt even more alone than ever. Even the one guy who I thought I could let in; the one guy who'd always been there for me, even if it was just in the background, wanted nothing to do with me. It didn't help that I had to stop working at the Crestmont either. I wanted to tell my parents no; I wanted to yell and scream at them.

Can't you see how important this job is to me? How important he is? How I feel like I'm drowning and sometimes sharing old popcorn with Clay is the only thing keeping me afloat? Can't you see how alone I am; how I have no one and nothing but this shitty red vest and a few stolen hours with the boy I'd dubbed Helmet. How can you not see that?! I wanted to yell all of this at them. But I couldn't. I wasn't selfish enough. Instead I simply nodded. I claimed it was no big deal. Even as I felt myself start to slip further beneath the water as I willingly released one of the few lifelines I had left.

* * *

 _10_

I wanted to leave; no, I needed to leave. But I'd barely made it from that room to the couch I was sitting on. My legs felt like they couldn't move another inch even if I had a forklift to help me try. I'd seen Clay leave and I wanted to call out to him; to call him back and sort out the mess that we'd left upstairs. But I couldn't. I just couldn't. I couldn't stop thinking about Bryce and what he did to Jessica. I saw him from the corner of my eye, laughing and playing beer pong. As if he hadn't just raped somebody.

Sheri. My guardian angel. You'd always been nice to me and I saw how you acted around school; you weren't like the other popular girls. Even if you were in their clique. And I can tell you're not drunk. Your breath smells like fruit punch. Not alcohol or mints eaten to disguise the smell of alcohol. I…I can trust you. At least for the five minutes it takes me to get home.

Why do the people I trust always betray me?

He's dead. He's dead. He's dead. Jeff's dead. Jeff's dead and Sheri and I killed him. I walk the school hallways, shoulders hunched. I feel eyes on me but, lately, I've been unable to tell if they were actually staring or if I was just being paranoid. I couldn't tell the difference anymore. All I could think was that everyone knew. I wasn't just the school slut or the owner of the best ass in the sophomore class; I was a murderer. Through inaction, sure. But Jeff's still dead and an old man will never walk again. Because Sheri cared more about not breaking curfew and avoiding blame than doing the right thing.

I'd felt numb ever since the accident; cold and bottomless. Jeff's death was yet another weight added to my soul. I tried to speak to Clay; I knew he and Jeff were friends. I'm not sure why I wanted to. Maybe I would've confessed my sins; maybe I simply wanted him to forgive me since Jeff was dead and he couldn't. But Clay didn't care. Even kind, sweet, caring Clay didn't have time for me. I couldn't really blame him; not after that party. It was one of the worst nights of my life and I'm almost sure it was one of his. I could tell Clay hadn't ever really dealt with real struggle.

That sounds arrogant; I know. Everyone's struggle is different; you never know what goes on behind closed doors, etcetera. But when I speak to Clay…I can see it. I can see this sort of boyish innocence and simple kindness. He's not stupid; he's just as aware as I of how the world can be a dark place. But he's…above it. He's untouched by it. He hasn't had to deal with that sort of darkness on a personal level…at least not yet. I wonder what his first glimpse into that particular abyss will be like. I hope it's nothing like mine was…or is, rather.

I walk by Jeff's house. It's not even close to on the way home for me but I detour and do it anyway. I stand at his fence, staring. I know it's not really possible but I can imagine that I see a grim, dark pallor over the structure. A light that it was missing ever since one of its residents died. I told myself this was impossible but who knows. Maybe it was.

Both of my grandfathers have passed away; one when I was six and one when I was nine. I loved them both and cried my eyes out when I figured out, in my own childish way, that they were never coming back. In contrast, I didn't even really know Jeff. I'd seen him around, maybe said good morning to him once and that was it. Yet I didn't feel this yawning, open abyss in the pit of my stomach when I thought about Pop-Pop or Gramps. I couldn't even try and delude myself into thinking I missed Jeff for missing him's sake. He was a stranger to me. I felt this way because I'd caused it. I'd had a part to play in his death. I somehow managed to make this boy's death all about me in my head. Phenomenal work, even for me.

Ever since that night, I couldn't stop myself from thinking of ifs. If only I hadn't distracted Sheri. If only I hadn't felt too weak to walk home that night. If only I'd finished what I started with Clay. If only I'd never even gone to that party. If only I'd never gone to the poetry circle. If only I'd never befriended Courtney. If only I'd never met Justin Foley. If only we hadn't moved to this town. If only I'd never been born.

Now that last one was a thought; it was one I hadn't really considered before. Maybe things really would have been better. For everyone. Jeff's parents would still have their son; Clay's heart wouldn't have been broken and I…well, I wouldn't be here. And I found comfort in that thought. In simply being no more, no longer part of the world, free from all of my worries, concerns and pain. It sounded nice. Really, really nice.

* * *

 _11_

You were so sweet, Clay. So unbelievably sweet. And gentle. And funny. And a hundred and one other good things. I'd seen it before but I admit, I'd written you off. You were just a bit too nice. And normal. Sort of boring. You were the type of guy that probably played with Lego as a teenager and watched the Sci Fi channel at home while the rest of the people our age were out doing things people our age shouldn't. I definitely didn't see the value in someone like you. Not at first, anyway. What can I say? I wasn't above being as shallow as everyone else, after all.

But time passed. I got to know you. We shared a lot. Laughs. Corny Jokes. Expired Mike-and-Ike's. And somehow along the way, I fell in love with you. Like an actual fall. A completely unintentional, head-over-heels _fall_. Nothing about it was planned. I just knew that I started enjoying our little moments way more than was warranted. There's no way I should have looked forward to scraping gum off of chairs. But I did. Because we did it together. Gosh, how corny does that sound?

After all I went through, I often felt adrift. Like my existence was a lonely, little canoe on the ocean of life. And whether that ocean was calm or tempestuous, one thing never changed: I was all alone in my little canoe. People passed me by, some even hailed, but no one dared board my boat. Why would they? I was nothing to them; at least when I was the class slut, people talked about me. Now, as with all things, those days have passed. The only evidence of them being my complete and utter solitude. That's one thing that hasn't changed. I thought it never would.

But you made me dare to dream, Clay. You made me think I didn't have to be alone, that there was another person willing to share my dim, boring little canoe with me. We'd laugh at all of the other boats passing us by, complain about the leaks ours had sprung before fixing them together and…maybe this metaphor has gone too far. But I'm sure you grasp my meaning by now.

That night…that night could've been so special. It could've changed everything. My entire life, altered with one simple decision. But it wasn't meant to be. At first, your lips were like heaven. I felt warmth and heat run through me as I touched you and you touched me. This was amazing; this was sweet and warm and light and _good_. This was nothing like all of the other times…

And that one thought was all it took for every single lick of fire I felt to turn into cold ice. All over again, I felt Bryce squeezing my ass, Marcus' rough grip on my thigh, Courtney's aggressive tongue forcing its way between my lips. Every part of me that your hand touched felt cold and wrong. Your lips were bitter; I could tell you simply tasted like alcohol and mint but my mind saw fit to supplant that with other, viler tastes. I couldn't control it. For the first time in my life, my brain utterly betrayed me as it revisited every single bad experience I'd had with kissing and sex. Your touch became tainted and wrong even though you'd done nothing to warrant such a classification.

I freaked. I yelled at you. I kicked you out of that room that night. My mouth told you to fuck off while my eyes pleaded for you to stay. I guess it was too bad for me you spoke English instead of eyeball. I watched you leave and my heart broke. You didn't just walk out of that room; you walked out of my life. I know it's not what you intended but it's what you did. Once you left, I knew that the future I'd dreamed of could never come to pass.

The girl in those dreams wasn't me; not anymore. It was why my hair was long in them; it was a version of me from the past. A version that no longer existed. A Hannah Baker that still trusted people, that wasn't looked at as the class slut, that still had friends. Plural. A Hannah Baker that saw the world in a somewhat cynical but overall optimistic way; full of potential and hope for the future. A Hannah Baker that was many things but not dark or weird or damaged or melancholy or some fucked up combination of the above.

I wasn't that girl anymore. I hadn't been that girl for a long time. I had changed; my experiences had changed me. I'd learnt how selfish humans could really be; I'd learnt of how a camera shutter could be absolutely terrifying, I'd learnt what it felt like to be touched without my consent. Multiple times. I'd learnt how even the nicest of people had the potential for cruelty within them. I'd learnt a lot, that's for sure, and none of it was good.

You wouldn't want me, Clay. Oh, I know you probably would say you do. Your kisses and grins told me that much. But Clay, you don't really know me. You see the Hannah that pokes fun at society's failings and plays in your hair when you're freshly bereft of your helmet. The Hannah that laughs at your jokes while telling you just how bad they are. Who watches the stars with you on a rickety theatre roof and pretends to see an eclipse.

You didn't see the Hannah that can barely bring herself to get out of bed. You didn't see the Hannah that was throwing away her dinner night after night because she couldn't stand to eat. You didn't see the Hannah that read books and talked to herself in the night, imitating the characters so she could feel like she had someone to talk to. You didn't see the Hannah whose eyes went more and more to a specific product on a specific shelf in her parent's store every time she walked in. A little, yellow box filled with sharp, pointy little rectangles. You didn't see that Hannah Baker, Clay. And you never would, if I had anything to say about it.

* * *

 _12_

I feel cold. And empty. I wasn't a stranger to this feeling but this time, it felt more…complete. Final, if I may be so bold. I was soaking wet, my clothes clung to my body and my sneakers hung limply from my left hand as I walked down the sidewalk barefoot. I couldn't feel the rough, abrasive stones digging into my feet. Not really. I had some distant sense that they were there but they didn't hurt me at all. Nothing could touch me in the state that I was in.

I watched it happen over and over again in my head; I watched his arms grip my shoulders and force me down. I felt my legs scramble against the side of the tub as I tried to leave but was forcefully pulled back in. I felt my underwear shift and I fought twice as hard, my breathing heavy as I tried to scramble away. I wasn't saying anything; I think I was in shock. I couldn't imagine it would've been any different if I'd had vocal complaints as opposed to physical ones. He didn't seem like he was in the mood to care about what I wanted.

With one rough motion, followed immediately by a sharp pain, I knew I'd reached the end of a road. A road I'd been forced down, kicked down by those around me, starting all those months ago with Justin taking a picture he shouldn't have. At times I'd fought to go down a different path but my feet always seemed to make their way right back onto this dark, lonely road. There was nothing I could do to stop it. Just like there was nothing I could do to stop him.

He continued on for several minutes; at some points I heard him whisper to me; I think he was trying to be comforting. Though I wasn't sure if he was comforting me or himself. I felt his hands roam over my body and I let them, my hands limp at my sides, all struggle now absent from my body. The only motion being generated by the boy behind me. I felt tears on my cheeks but I didn't feel any new ones in my eyes. I'd accepted the situation and become numb to it in the process. I embraced the cold emptiness and detached myself from reality. From what was happening to me.

I wasn't being raped. Some girl that bore some passing resemblance to me was. I was above it all, untouched and impervious to all feeling and, as a result, all harm as well. I watched Bryce fist a hand in my…I mean _her_ hair and I saw him smile, even now bragging and joking. I idly wondered if this was all some façade or if Bryce Walker was actually this clueless. I knew boys were dumb but there had to be some sort of line or limitation. But, if there was ever a boy dumb enough to convince himself that this wasn't rape, it would be Bryce Walker.

I briefly contemplated whether the-girl-that-looked-like-me would suffer any repercussions from this act; Bryce hadn't exactly brought protection into the tub with him and I knew she certainly wasn't on birth control. But I didn't contemplate further because I knew that it didn't really matter. Soon, it would be over. Then the girl would be able to leave. And then things would really be over. She'd need to put some things in order first, of course, but she was an efficient planner; I knew she could get everything arranged in a day or two, tops.

I came back to myself as I heard the splashing sounds of Bryce exiting the tub. He cheerfully waved over his shoulder and bid me to join them inside for more drunken debauchery once I'd had the chance to "freshen up". I couldn't even look in his direction; I simply waited, listening to his wet, slapping footsteps fade into the distance. When I heard nothing more than crickets, I gathered my things and left, my pace unhurried, unconcerned. What did I have to fear anymore, what more could happen to me tonight?

It was almost funny, in a way. When I'd seen Jessica go through the same thing I had, I'd been stricken with fear, grief, rage, remorse. I'd been almost physically unable to move, barely capable of making it down a flight of stairs. Now, after I'd experienced the same thing, I walked straight and true with no stutter in my step or hesitance in my stride as I walked the dozen or so blocks back to my house. In some ways, I actually felt lighter. Bryce's actions had freed me; it had been the final nail in the coffin that belonged to Hannah Baker. I didn't have to pretend anymore; I didn't have to try and smile at the world; I didn't have to try and look towards the future and remain positive; I didn't have to _try_ , period. My life was over.

In some odd way, I wanted to thank Bryce. If he hadn't assaulted me; if he hadn't robbed me of the last vestiges of innocence and dignity I possessed, I may have hopelessly clung to my sinking canoe for months, if not years. I'd have to sit there and pretend to be normal while this pit in my stomach grew day by day with every leer and snide remark sent my way. I'd have to act as if I gave a shit about some red lines on a paper, given to me by some old lady with a lazy eye and a community college teaching degree. I'd have to sit through God knows how many more arguments between my parents, trying and failing to care that we'd lost yet another customer to a pharmacy that made ours look like a lemonade stand. I'd have to do all of that while fighting the urge to rage and scream and cry, just so that I could be noticed. Just so that someone could actually look at me and say "How are you?" and actually mean it.

You freed me, Bryce. You stole my last lifeline from me. You bore yet another hole into my canoe and it's finally beginning to sink. Slowly but surely. Rats, I'd promised to drop the boat metaphor, hadn't I? Oh well. I'll ask you to put up with my lacking sense of dramatic prose for just a bit longer, but have no fear. It won't be that long. I can feel the water lapping at my ankles as my canoe fills, after all. I've thrown away the bucket and given up on bailing the water out. I'm simply content to sink.

I'd thought my acceptance of the idea would feel differently. I always kind of assumed that, when I actually decided to make the decision to end my own life, I would feel fear or regret. I'd immediately redact my statement and fruitlessly hold on for some unspecified amount of time as the pain and loneliness warred against my built in will to survive. But I found that particular will absent, as the thought of leaving this world filled me with a sense of comfort and peace. I'd never been very religious but this sort of feeling be what God feels like. I think I understand religious nuts a bit more now, I must admit.

I walked into my parents' pharmacy, heading straight for the shelf that I'd been staring at more and more in the passing weeks. I glanced up and found both of the other Bakers engrossed in something, exchanging heated words as they stared at a computer screen. It was probably something Walplex related. I don't know; for the first time, I could say that I honestly and wholeheartedly didn't give a shit. I grabbed one of the little yellow boxes and slipped them into my pocket. I went to leave but then I saw a pack of tapes, audio cassettes. A relic of a bygone age. Much like I would be soon. There was poetry in that. I felt the beginnings of an idea in my mind and I reached out again, slipping a pack of the clear, white rectangles into my bag as well. I waved goodbye to my parents who distractedly waved back and I exited the store, my head filling with thoughts and plans of action for the first time in who knows how long. It felt good. Not good enough to continue living but good enough to delay my exit for a few days; I had things to do now. Things to finish before I used my sharp little yellow boxed friends for the first and last time.

* * *

 _13_

That's it. It's done. It took a little longer than I thought but I've completed the twelve tapes. My twelve reasons. I didn't think it would be so…easy. I'm not sure what I expected but it wasn't my cool, even, somewhat humorous delivery. I calmly went over each and every point I had written down. I broke things down succinctly, I gave clear directions and examples and I wove a compelling narrative, if I do say so myself. I think I surprised even myself here, huh. I don't think there was a single tear shed. Go me.

It is odd, though. I feel…different. Not happy; never that. But lighter, almost. Like by creating the tapes, I've transplanted some of the darkness inside me into them. I'm not carrying it all on my own anymore; they're carrying some too. It helped more than I thought it would. I sort of recognized this feeling, now that I examined it from that angle. I'd felt similar back when I used to write in my journal…before Ryan stole my poem, anyway. I picked up his tape, looking at the side where the number 8 was painted in deep blue nail polish. The sense of betrayal and discomfort felt softened; dulled. Like someone had sanded down the edges of my pain, allowing me to handle it without damaging myself in the process.

This was…good. I braced myself, waiting for the usual storm of insecurity, anger, fear and sadness to overtake me but nothing came. I was able to take some joy; some solace in this moment without being swiftly punished for it by my own psyche. I'd walked alongside my darkness and I'd tamed it; I'd bent it to my will and we'd become wary companions. I'd taken control of my life. I could feel good about that without shame or regret. How long had it been since I was able to do something I'd once found so easy…

Ok. I can do this. I've said it a hundred times before and I'd failed a hundred times since but this will be try one hundred and one. I can carry on; I can continue on and live my life. My story doesn't have to end here. I can turn the page and keep going; for the first time in a long time, I felt hope. Hope that these tapes would never see the light of day; more precisely that they would never _need_ to see the light of day.

And with that little wish; that small crack in my walls, the emotions of the last week that I'd done such a good job at making myself numb to came flooding in as I thought to myself that maybe, just maybe, I didn't need to die. Death, the idea of death anyway, had offered me comfort; cold comfort but comfort all the same. I would be no more; I would not have to suffer ever again. What Bryce did to me didn't matter because I would be gone. I'd avoided dealing with my feelings because I'd resigned myself to my newfound status as the walking dead. As a moving corpse that simply had a few errands to finish before stopping its motion forever. A corpse had no need for emotional resolution.

I choked back a cry as it all hit me; the revulsion, the panic, the fear, the pain, the shame…I felt Bryce Walker's hands all over me again. I felt him violate me; I felt him rob me of something precious that I'd planned to give away to a boy I loved someday. I felt every second of emotion that I'd blocked out when I'd actually been raped hit me all at once on that cool, October day as I sat in my room. Maybe death was the better choice; I couldn't see how I could ever deal with this. How I could ever be a normal person again. How I could walk the halls, see _him_ and that smarmy, cocky grin on his face. That look in his eyes as he pointed me out to his friends and told them about how the easy sophomore girl had let him between her legs in his hot tub.

No. I couldn't do that. I fingered the box of razor blades but I ultimately put them down. There was another way; there had to be. I could continue on; maybe I'd need to make more tapes or something down the line but I felt like I could actually proceed. I didn't feel whole or healthy by any means; I felt carefully stitched together like a tapestry made of silk threads that only barely managed to stay entwined. So fragile that a small gust of wind could scatter them forever. But I was still in one piece. Albeit one horribly damaged, splintered, threadbare piece. As long as I could keep it that way, I could manage. I could grow and heal and become the person I was always meant to.

But there'd be none of that if I had to walk past Bryce Walker every single day for the next seven months. I couldn't do that if I was constantly wondering whether this whisper or that snicker was about me and Bryce; yet another of Hannah Baker's sexcapades for the high school rumour mill to churn out and spread to the four corners of the wind. Only this one would actually be true, give or take a "Yes. I agree to having your penis in my vagina." or so. Even at the peak of Hannah Baker's sluttiness, I'd found comfort in knowing that it was all bullshit. There was none of that here; every whisper would take me back to that hot tub. To those hands on me and that disgusting, alcohol tinged breath on the back of my neck. I lightly touched my shoulder, where distinct fingerprint marks still stood, even almost a full week after.

Something had to change; something had to give. If I was going to give life one last try, it would need to be on my terms. And those terms didn't have any room in them for Bryce fucking Walker. Fratboy and rapist extraordinaire. I wanted him gone; I _needed_ him gone. There had to be a way; something I could do or someone I could talk to. My mind conjured something up; a long held memory I hadn't revisited in who knew how long. Someone who'd told me they'd be there if I ever needed help. Mrs Antilly hadn't been at the school for a little while now but maybe her replacement could help. I'm sure I wouldn't be the first fucked up teenager he'd had the pleasure of speaking to courtesy of Liberty High's tender mercies. He'd have to be able to do something; point me in the right direction at the very least. It's his job, after all. It would even be worth it if he called my parents in; I couldn't speak to them without some sort of outside impetus. I was a coward in every sense of the word. So I'll go and see Mr. Porter; maybe he can do something to help. It's his job after all.

Wow. Just…wow. I wish I hadn't forgotten that just because something was your job didn't mean you were any good at it. Perhaps I should give Mr. Porter more credit; I hadn't exactly been a fountain of information after all and he was clearly being stretched in a ton of different directions. It wasn't fair for me to expect him to have time to try and fix poor, little Hannah Baker and her problems. Mine weren't that important; there were people out there with cancer or brain damage or missing limbs. Compared to them, my situation was just peachy. I'm sure a stage 4 cancer patient would trade places with me in a second.

But that's the thing; that's the awesomely fucked up, little thing. I didn't care. I thought about the millions of people that had it so much worse to me and I couldn't bring myself to give a single fuck about any of them. I couldn't add any value to the thought of staying alive based on them; I just couldn't do it. Humans are selfish creatures and Hannah Baker is no exception. I was just done; I was tired of being alone and abused and sad all the time. This wasn't the kind of life I wanted to live. I didn't care that I had it better than so many others that didn't try and kill themselves; I just knew that I was hurting and I wanted it to stop. I'd tried so much and none of it had helped. None of it would help. I just knew it. Don't ask me how; gut instinct I suppose.

I passed through the rest of the day in somewhat of a daze; I completed my last tasks, my last day on earth, in a mundane, lethargic state. I dropped off my old work uniform, I mailed the tapes to Justin's address, I dropped the copies off at Tony's and I suddenly found myself home with but one task left to complete. Holding the yellow box with my sharp tongued little friends inside. I didn't need to contemplate how I was going to do it; I'd planned it all out in my head several times by now. I'd settled on a classic; the ladylike way of doing things. With nothing but an empty bathroom and my little, sharp edged friends as witnesses. The cuts were difficult to do; no matter how determined you are, it's physically difficult to cut yourself. You instinctively shy away from self-harm; it's human. I pushed through that instinct and sliced, pushing as hard as I could bear. Once. Twice. And now the other arm…there! I gasped and fumbled, my fingers losing their hold on the red slicked razor blade as it fell into the water. I hoped I'd done enough before my grip had failed me. It would be embarrassing to come this far, only to fail.

I lay back, gasping as I struggled to breath. The lines that I'd cut into my skin burned but I didn't care. I felt the weight on my chest lighten as I began to grow tired. The darkness that had been growing and festering inside of me for so long was being purged by the lines that burnt anew and wept red tears with each beat of my heart. Every single bad experience I'd had since that fateful night at the park with Justin was ceasing to matter with each and every pulse of those lines along my wrists. I felt my concern, my worry, my shame, my fear, my anger…I felt them all start to loosen and unfurl from where they lay curled around my soul. The doubt, the insecurity, the mortification, the embarrassment…it all lost its meaning. Its importance. My eyelids began to droop and I let them, darkness enclosing me as my sight was cut off. This was a comforting darkness. A safe darkness. An eternal darkness. I was dying. I knew I was dying. Before I'd put the razor blade to my wrist, I'd wondered how this moment would feel. The realization that this was the end. That there was no tape 14; No last words; No "tomorrow" for Hannah Baker. I'd wondered in morbid fascination; would I feel sad? Regretful? Nostalgic? Guilty? Hurt? I didn't know at the time. But I knew now; I knew exactly how I felt. I felt happy. Simply and utterly happy. And isn't that the most tragic thing of all?


End file.
